


each to his own lonely grave

by ofamaranthlie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mentions of rough sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 11:43:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofamaranthlie/pseuds/ofamaranthlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unable to sleep, Crowley ponders over his and Sam's new life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	each to his own lonely grave

_So what if nothing is safe?_  
 _So what if no one is saved,_  
 _No matter how sweet,_  
 _No matter how brave,_  
 _What if each to his own lonely grave?_

\---

Crowley has never been fond of mornings for as long back as he can remember, which is really quite far, if he is being honest with himself. If he has a choice, which he often does not, he prefers to shy away from the morning sunlight for as long as possible. But now he has choices. It’s a bizarre concept.

He does, however, enjoy the rain: the soft pitter-patter of water against his window, the way it sends people running every which way. Rain had always been good for business. Something about dreary days made people more desperate, more willing to give into their deep-dark desires and offer their souls on a pretty silver platter if it means a shot at happiness, no matter how fleeting. 

But there are no more business deals. Not anymore.

It’s a topic that swarms his mind like a hive of angry hornets as he lies in his king-sized bed with Sam, and he’s sure that there’s a joke in there somewhere about how no kings lie in the bed anymore. It’s almost funny, but he can’t bring himself to smile. Instead, he absently stares out the window adjacent to the bed, the curtain drawn just enough to reveal a glimpse of the rain and storm clouds. The image is comforting and familiar, but not even the rain’s soothing lullaby is enough to coax him back to the sleep his body so desperately needs. Because oh, if he thought that he was exhausted during his last year or two as a demon, it’s got nothing on how drained he is now as a human. 

Uncertainty trumps fatigue, and Crowley cannot relax, his senses on edge. On any other day, he would slip out of bed and find something to occupy his mind with, if even just for a little while. But with Sam’s face burrowed in his neck and an arm and leg curled around his body, Crowley’s movement is limited, and he cannot find it in him to move Sam. Sam, who is like some overgrown koala, clinging to Crowley like it would pain him to loosen his grip, like he’s afraid that Crowley will leave him at any moment. Although he’s loath to admit it, the feeling is mutual. He remembers one occasion when he woke up alone, the empty space beside him long since cold. Panic ran cold in his veins; his heart racing with the thought of _is this it_? The day when he would have to accept that he was always meant to be alone? When Sam returned to their room a minute later and slid back into bed, Crowley offered no explanation when he curled into Sam and closed his eyes, simply breathing in his scent and feeling the warm body beneath him. Sam did not ask. Perhaps he understood.

Sam shifts in his sleep, and Crowley winces when one of Sam’s oversized hands brushes too hard against one of the many bruises on Crowley’s hips. Because that’s the thing about koalas: as cute and cuddly as they may seem, koalas are vicious little creatures that like to bite _hard_. 

More often than not, they tumble into bed with Sam bearing down atop him, teeth and nails digging into his flesh with enough force to draw blood. But Crowley welcomes the pain, revels in it as Sam lavishes Crowley’s neck with sharp bites, soothing the red skin with his tongue. Crowley tangles a hand in Sam’s hair and tugs when Sam doesn’t move fast enough, and Sam just laughs, a low rumble that Crowley feels as Sam bites and claws his way down Crowley’s body. He’ll pay particular attention to Crowley’s hips as he nibbles along the flesh, his hand lightly caressing Crowley’s thick, swollen cock without providing any needed friction. Sam will tease with fingers and tongue until Crowley is near begging for Sam to get on with it, to fill him until he feels like he’ll bust. And Sam always complies and fucks him fast and rough like the way he likes, the way he needs it to be. 

Sam’s ferocity and dominance have not changed, and Crowley likes that stability. Unfortunately, Crowley’s body has changed. No longer can he heal his bedroom wounds at a whim, and God, Crowley had forgotten how tiresome and weak human bodies are at their core. But Sam met Crowley’s bitterness with patience, and Sam is always there to tend to the injuries and rebuild Crowley after each rough session. 

Because that’s what Sam’s efforts have always amounted to, hasn’t it? An attempt to rebuild each other from the ground up, until they can look themselves in the eye in the mirror and not be filled with grating guilt and hatred. It’s a terribly romantic notion, and he’s not sure if such a goal is possible. Some things are too broken to fix, too complex and shattered to piece together into something whole, something worthy.

But Sam never stops trying, and Crowley never dissuades him. Perhaps he should. But, perhaps Crowley should have done many things in his life.

The rain falls harder, pelting the window with newfound vigor as lightning flashes across the sky. Crowley closes his eyes as thunder imminently follows, powerful enough to shake their small house. Sam stirs at the thunderclap, nosing against Crowley’s neck with a sleepy little sound. Crowley opens his eyes at the touch, but his eyes remain on the window.

“Go t’sleep,” Sam mumbles.

Crowley smiles, thin and humorless. Sam knows him well enough to know when he’s in one of his sleepless fits. Sam also knows how his presence affects Crowley, which explains why he leans in and brushes a sleep-warm cheek against Crowley’s in a soft, affectionate touch.

“In a minute,” he says.

Sam hesitates before laying back down, his arm and leg tightening on Crowley as if that’s enough to keep them solid and together. Crowley has his doubts, has so many doubts and concerns that he cannot even begin to separate and categorize them in his mind, but he does not push Sam away. Instead, he winds an arm around Sam, keeping him close as he watches the rain fall, fall, fall.

**Author's Note:**

> The lyrics (as well as the title) are from Regina Spektor's "The Sword & The Pen", which is a good song for my Mooseley muse.


End file.
